Born again — in a Jewish way
Yom Kippur
Want to be a born-again Jew? It can happen. In fact, it should.
I am thinking, of course, about the Christian phenomenon that regularly fills the headlines. According to a 2006 Barna-Group survey, only 7 percent of born-agains are Evangelicals; the other 33 percent might be your next-door neighbors, who have probably mentioned their belief to you, but not tried actively to recruit you. Only 38 percent of those are likely to support the long list of conservative positions on social issues that make most Jews wary. So being reborn need not come with presupposed moral baggage. The defining factor is the sense of having experienced a spiritual moment of turning.
Jews too can be born again — in a Jewish way. That promise arises most urgently just this week, as we end the 10 days of repentance known equally as "the 10 days of turning." This Yom Kippur, just like born-again Christians, we will express the hope of having turned to God.
I know that the very language of "being reborn" does not trip lightly off Jewish tongues. But bear with me for a minute. The fact that Christians use it so deftly should not prevent Jews from reclaiming our version of it. Our Yom Kippur liturgy says so: That, at least, is the Talmud's interpretation.
Start with Rosh Hashana, which we call yom harat olam, "the day the world was conceived." The Akeda, the binding of Isaac, is the second day's reading (Reform Jews sometimes read it on the first — and only — day they keep). The first day's reading is God's visit to Sarah to promise the birth of Isaac, accompanied by the haftara in which Hannah prays for the birth of Samuel. Clearly, the theme of Rosh Hashana is birth.
By contrast, Yom Kippur announces death. We dismiss our body as already dead: no eating, drinking, sex, or even washing — we do nothing for our bodies nor do we encourage our bodies to do anything for us. We dress in a kittel, the white garb used for burial, and a tallit too, for we are buried with our tallit as well.
But by the last service of Yom Kippur, Ne'ila, a strange thing happens. We take off our tallit and (in some places) the kittel, too, as a sign that that our personal death-watch is over. The highlight of that service is a prayer said at no other time. Instead of al het, the frightening admission of every imaginable sin, we affirm our deliverance from death, because "You [God] reach out" to us. We feel pulled from despair and placed on the path of life for yet another year.
Then there is the drawn-out sound of the shofar. The Gemara likens it to the cries of a woman in labor. The last (and longest) teki'a g'dola heralds the actual birth. And the end of Yom Kippur repeats the very same sound: the harbinger of our being born — again.
But we cannot merely think our way to rebirth. We need to experience it by opening ourselves to the fullness of Yom Kippur, moving spiritually from the depths of Kol Nidrei to the elation of Ne'ila. The alternative is returning, not to God, but to all the old bad habits that are dangerous to our health. How much better it is to revisit family, job, and relationships freshly attuned to a realistic evaluation of what they are and a perspective that makes the most of them.
As the gates of Ne'ila finally close, turn back to Kol Nidrei from the night before. An introductory line stands out: "Light is sown for the righteous." (Psalms 97:11) That verse from Psalms recalls another (118:27) that promises, "God has given us light." But the context there is the request, "Open the gates of righteousness for me" (118:19) so that "I shall not die but live" (118:17). Even before Kol Nidrei, then, we ask God, who has provided light for the righteous, to open the gate leading to it that we may not die but live.
That hope comes true 24 hours later, when the closing gates of Ne'ila are replaced by wide-open gates to righteousness and to the joys and rewards that can be attained only through righteousness. We cannot change everything about ourselves. Debilitating physical and mental conditions, for instance, do not magically evaporate. But everyone can be reborn to righteousness and the newfound peace of mind that comes with it. In the light of righteousness, we learn to make the most of what we have and discover, perhaps, that we have more than we thought we did.
May we all be inscribed and sealed in the book of life: life reborn — to righteousness and goodness; contentment, and peace.
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